Wrong
by Kouklara
Summary: What if you can't be corrected? What if you're just...wrong? [ButtersBradley, oneshot]


A/N: Okay...this is really not my usual style, I don't even like shonen-ai xD;;

But hey, it's late at night and I'd been reading disgustingly fluffy Butters/Bradley while listening to Chieko Kawabe and curlews, so leave me alone. Oh, and I don't really remember this episode in detail, so I'm sorry if there are any mistakes.

Wrong 

It's not that I don't try, really. And it's not as if I don't see the error of my ways. Christ, I'm a walking _bible_. But I can't help it; it's just the way I am. More kids than I can count have taken their own lives here; the camp covers up every suicide, wriggles out of every lawsuit, and is never questioned, because it's in the name of God. And don't get me wrong; I've got nothing against God. God's great, except when he's ratting me out for having men's underwear catalogues in my cabin. But it makes you jittery after a while, and I can't help avoiding everybody's eyes, muttering under my breath, chewing my nails anxiously, feeling so fucking _wrong_. What if I screw up and my parents decide to keep me here even longer? What if I buckle and decide to join all those kids who gave up? I don't want to die, not even if I get depressed. Shit, I've been here so _long_…

And then along comes Butters, with his mop of yellow hair and his adorably oblivious expression. It doesn't help that the assholes in charge decide to make him my so-called 'accountabillibuddy', that now we're supposed to spend every waking moment together. Before he's been here half an hour, I'm completely smitten. It's another thing I can't help. Charming me is the easiest thing in the world; you just have to be cute, tolerant of faggots like myself, and male. Butters is all of these things and more. I can't even begin to describe the way my heart starts jumping around in my chest whenever he says my name. I mill about like usual though, and suppress it, because I know it's wrong, that I should go find some girl to have a crush on instead of; but how _can_ I? Butters is better than any girl I've ever met; he's sweet, caring, endearingly bewildered. He doesn't seem to have the slightest idea why he's here, which makes me wonder; but I push the doubts to the back of my mind and try not to enjoy his company as much as I do, as much as I can't keep myself from.

Then it comes, words I dread, but wish for all the same:

"Sure, I like-like you a lot-lot!" he giggles shyly.

He probably has no idea what he's saying, being Butters; but true to my nature, I jump straight on it, and hold onto it for as long as I can. Masochism? Maybe, and it scares me a little; after all, there's no way I can allow myself to feel this, and it hurts, more than I expected. But what do you expect; it's a fucking _correction_ camp, this hellhole that's driven me crazy for months on end, that's brought me to this. But what if you can't be corrected? What if you're just…_wrong_?

And almost before I know what I'm doing, I'm standing on the bridge, staring down at the water, trying not to picture Butters' face and think about how I'll never see it again. It's not easy to control your thoughts, not when they're so scattered like mine, and I can hear his voice ringing in my ears, bouncing in my head.

_i like-like you a lot_

I'd panicked. Nothing new, for me. Trembling, leaping to my feet, I'd declared that we'd never beat this; we'd have to kill ourselves! I stand by my decision. Maybe Butters sees nothing wrong with it: more likely than not, that's what I like about him. He's so innocent, so unaware of how many rules he's breaking, so unconcerned about the eternity of damnation that awaits him. But I know, and I'm terrified, and I'm about to leap straight into it and I wonder bleakly if it's more masochism. I guess after so much time in a place where you just get used to being tortured, it doesn't mean much any more. Not that that makes it any more enjoyable, of course. Yes, I know what's coming, and I'm tackling it head-on, simply because there's nothing else for it.

There it is; the realisation. I'm unfixable. No guarantee of quality for me. No warranty, no refund. I came out wrong.

But, no matter how long they've spent drilling it into my head, no matter how many verses I know off by heart, I can't help it. When Butters shows up, to rescue me, to tell the world that he's bi-curious and proud, I don't feel wrong.

I feel warm and safe, like someone actually cares.

I'm deluding myself, though, because Butters leaves that day. And even if I'm wrong, even if it's exactly like every other time in my life, even if Butters didn't know what he was saying, and he never liked me the same way I liked him, his sheepish smile lingers in my mind, and I beam and stuff my fingers in my mouth to stifle a squeak. He'll forget me, I know; he'll meet a girl and get on with his life and completely forget the stupid little gay kid who never stopped quoting the bible. But I won't forget him: Butters Stotch, the one person who ever made me feel like I was normal, like there was nothing wrong with me; who made me feel right.


End file.
